Arkansas
by Aquillo
Summary: A fairly short story chronicling how Arkansas became the sniper we all know and hate, and how Ridgefield became minefield. Written mainly because Arkansas had a slot but no story, and that kinda set my imagination going.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own Fallout 1-3 or New Vegas, or anythign else which people might possibly think I own after reading this._

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><p>By the time the slavers had finished gutting Ridgefield the sun had already rose over the wastes, it's light adding to the bonfires constructed outside the run of rubble and remarkably intact pre-war buildings. Ridgefield had always been lucky in that regard: far enough from D.C. to not get flattened, yet close enough to a power station to be worthwhile colonising. It had certainly been attractive enough for Ridgefield's current, now enslaved, populace: a collection of families descended from the pre-war army, which meant they'd had lots of weaponry and enough to training to know how to use them. And yet, for all the benefits it offered, Ridgefield was painfully noticeable from miles away in the south and south-east: to settlers and slavers alike.<p>

The siege had started quickly and, for the most part, cleanly. The settlers didn't know they were being hit until they were cut off from each other, each family holed up in it's own house, and by then it was too late: superior weaponry was one thing, but it was useless against an enemy who had already divided your forces and was more than willing to take however many loses you could inflict. Most of them gave up after the slavers massacred the first family that refused to surrender. Those that still persisted were added to the bonfire, which steadily grew in size as the night dragged out, spawning offspring that burned as many dead slavers as it did settlers.

All in all the slavers had captured around nineteen souls, far less than the amount they'd lost in gaining them: a pyrrhic victory that was severely pissing off some of the younger slavers. One, either drunk on vodka or high on jet, pulled a chunk off the bonfire and made as if to throw it into the houses before he was shot in the leg. The man who'd taken the shot stood up from beside one of the other bonfires, and, calmly brushing the dirt off his leather duster, began to amble towards the screaming slaver.

"What you think you're doin?'" whispered Isaiah Red, his light brown hair blowing in the breeze as he stepped forwards, eyes concentrating on reloading his magnum. Some of the younger slavers made as if to move before the older ones pulled them back.

"I said what the fuck you think you doin'?" Isaiah called out again, shooting the already whimpering slaver in the other leg. "You thinking of trying to burn down them buildings?" he pointed them out in case the offending slaver might have forgotten before stamping on the wounded leg. Slave and slaver alike winced at the screams.

Isaiah Red wasn't a man who really stood out much from first perspective: not that tall, though he often seemed taller, and with a plain if somewhat pleasant face. All of this hid the fact that he was one of the most sadistic bastards left in the wastes, which had caused him to rise quickly and bloodily through the slaver ranks, often taking care to piss on the shoes he was about to leave. Ridgefield was his first assignment in command, and he'd been talking about it with malicious glee in his eyes for weeks, unnerving everyone who'd been forcibly conscripted into going with him.

"You know why we came here in the first place? You know why we took this place, even though we knew it was gonna hit us hard?" Isaiah spat, pulling the slaver up onto his knees and glaring into his face.

"Look at them buildings." he continued, grabbing the slaver's face by his hands and twisted it towards the settlement. "Those some damn beautiful buildings. People see those buildings from miles around and they start thinkin' 'bout home, safety and other kindsa bullshit." Isaiah turned the slaver's face back around, taking care to dig his finger in.

"What they don't think is that slavers know 'bout them buildings: that we've got those buildings mapped out and marked. They don't think they're goin' into the biggest fucking trap of their entire life. You burn my buildings, they gonna think that. They gonna know somethin's up, cos ain't none of them as stupid as you."

Gus stepped out of one of those buildings, the cigarette in his right hand sprinkling ash onto the floor as Isaiah fired the final shot into the slaver's head. Left hand rubbing over his balding head in an attempt to relieve the headache that was ripping through it, Gus absent-mindedly adjusted his leather armour before a burst of movement behind one of the cars drew his attention. Keeping his head still, Gus watched with his eyes as two boys, one about fourteen and the other nearer seven, ducked their heads back down. 'Shit' Gus thought to himself. 'Why the fuck are they still here.'

He'd worked out they're were a few more missing before, of course: it didn't exactly take mentats to figure out that families with kids rooms and no kids were missing someone. Yet Gus had kept his mouth sealed and had been surprised when no-one else had noticed. It wasn't that he was opposed to slavery (how could he be, he was a slaver), yet there was something entirely different about enslaving children. Maybe it was because Gus still saw slavery as being the same as shooting someone, only you kept their body around to do things for you and he wasn't sick enough to think it was okay to shoot a child. Or maybe it was that even the most hardened slaver would think twice before handing children over to an asshole like Isaiah Red. Reasons aside, he'd left them be, and now he'd come out to find the silly gits were not only still in Ridgefield but were close enough to the slaver's bonfires to be spotted. And, Gus realised with mounting dread, he'd be the one who'd end up waist deep in shit for this: as second in command he was meant to know how many people they should have captured, and he'd already told Isaiah that they had all there were.

Walking over towards Isaiah and the dead slaver, and trying not to throw up as Issiah brushed brains and bits of bloody skull off himself, Gus chucked his cigarette into the fire before pulling out another one.

"What did he do?" Gus asked, gesturing at the corpse.

"Fucked around with my bad mood." Isaiah replied, not looking up from wiping himself clean as if in a frenzy, which he was as far as Gus could see.

"Messed up my suit, look." he continued, showing a bloodstained patch with great anguish. "Fuck knew I liked bein' clean, and bled out all over me."

"We'd best move out, then." Gus said, looking round and ignoring one of the many manifestations of Isaiah's madness. "Before someone else does something you don't like."

Isaiah stopped cleaning and looked up at Gus, grinning boldly from ear to ear.

"Now there's some wise words, Gus. Should of thought of that myself, shouldn't I? Damn: I wish I had your smarts." before he turned off and walked back towards the slaves, kicking up men into standing positions as he went.

'Don't be too intelligent.' Gus warned himself, cautiously following. 'He sees intelligence as a threat, remember that. Don't give him any reason to think you're worth his attention.'

By the time the slavers and slaves had moved out, Gus had long forgotten about the two boys they'd left behind in Ridgefield, his mind bent entirely on ways to avoid his superior like he was a mirelurk plague.

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><p>It was three hours after the slavers had gone that the larger boy, Billy Gibson, finally let the smaller one off the ground. Jumping to his feet, and accidentally ramming the older boy in the stomach as he did so, the kid ran out from behind the rusting car and stood there, breathing heavily and trying to peer through the smoke thrown up by the dying bonfires. Billy shrugged his tattered denim jacket back in to place as he watched the younger kid, suppressing the urge to either hit him or follow him out there. 'I don't know what to do' he realised, with a jolt of surprise. 'I have no idea what I'm meant to do.'<p>

Up until that morning he'd known what he was supposed to do: get up, clean his gun and help his Pa hunt. Except his Pa was gone: they were all gone, everyone except for him and Manson's stupid kid Arkansas, and he'd be no use at all. The idiot had even tried to call out when the slavers were taking everyone away: he'd had to wrestle him to the ground in order to stop him, and even then he'd fought against it. It dawned on him that he'd probably have to look after Arkansas as well as himself. Two mouths to feed and keep alive: as if having to look after himself wasn't bad enough.

Unbidden, an old memory returned: Pa, speaking to him from next to the kitchen table, his Ma preparing squirrel stew on the stove.

"Robert Heart (the settlement's Doctor) was lucky, Billy; most people wouldn't be able to make it back here on foot, even if they'd been rescued. Remember: if you're caught and manage to escape, head for Megaton or Rivet city and put word out on the caravans. We'll come get you, you hear?"

The last part was useless: Billy knew they'd never come get him, but they were right, in a way: head to Rivet City or Megaton, whichever was nearer.

"Arkansas!" He called out to the other boy, whose back was still defiantly turned away from him. "Hey, Arkansas, you dumb idiot, we need to get moving. It ain't safe here any more."

Arkansas said nothing, and continued to stare out over the wastes, the blood red of the setting sun contrasting against the smoke still coming from the bonfires to make him look like he was standing in hell. Looking around, Billy felt as if that 'like' was misplaced.

"We need to get to either Rivet city or Megaton: somewhere where we'll be okay. I'm gonna go see if there's any supplies left over, or any weapons we can take with us."

"We need to go after them." Arkansas said, and Billy paused mid turn, his foot hanging in the air. He lowered it, and turned back to face him again.

"We can't: they're too powerful. We'll be killed."

"Then we'll die with honour!" Arkansas shouted turning round to face him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Billy knew what was going through his mind at the moment: Arkansas wanted blood, fire and ruin to satisfy his drive for vengeance, and two years ago he'd have been right there with him. But two years ago his Dad had taken him out to see a an abandoned raiders outpost, and Billy had never thrown up as much as he had that day. And whilst his Dad was nursing him, having carried him away from the rotting mutilated bodies that were hung everywhere, he'd taught him the single lesson you needed to survive. Don't fuck with the wastes: just keep you head down and don't let trouble see you. Honour had no place in a world where people could do things like that.

"I don't wanta die at all." Billy said, calmly, turning his back and walking away.

As he'd packed up to leave, Arkansas had just remained standing there, sullenly looking out into the wasteland as if daring it to notice him. He was kinda stupid for an eight-year old, Billy thought to himself, as the sun set completely and night flooded over the ground. Swinging his bag onto his shoulder, Billy raised his head to the sky, eyes shinning from the stars above, and then back down at the only home he'd ever known. And then, picking up the other bag, he walked over to Arkansas, listing slightly to one side from the weight.

"Hey. I'm leaving, now. You coming or what?" he called out to the shadow facing away from him, it's outline hidden even from the last lights coming off the bonfires.

"I'm not going. I'm gonna get them all back." he replied, and for the first time Billy realised how young he sounded. Pity stayed him from walking off and leaving him there, to be eaten by whatever found him first.

"Well, I've got all the guns and food on me. Your not going to get very far." Arkansas shuffled his feet slightly, but didn't say anything. Billy decided to try another tactic. "Here." he called out, throwing the bag.

Without turning round, Arkansas caught it perfectly with his left hand before staggering slightly under the weight. Leaving him there, Billy trudged off into the night. After a few moments, the sound of Arkansas's footsteps followed him.

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><p><em>Author's notes<em>

Thanks for reading: I should have the second part up shortly if you're interested. If your lucky/unlucky, it may even extend to three parts. Reviews always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

Night's were different in the wastes from the day, Billy decided, if only because you couldn't see what was hunting you. The fall of the sun drained all of the browns and greys from the world, leaving behind vast open plains of black dotted with the far deeper shadows of ashen trees, vehicles or mountain ranges. He imagined the world would have looked much the same before the war at this time: dark and filled to the brim with the eternal sense of 'something's behind you'. No, he did not like the night.

Not that he liked much of his new existence, truth be told: if anything he preferred the night to the day because the same reasons as to why he couldn't see danger meant that danger couldn't see him, and anything that hunted by scent would have been thrown off by the musk of ash and gunpowder that clung around the two boys. Even being unspottable wasn't enough to save them, however, and Billy was certain that something was following them. So he'd kept the two of them moving, the reason for being one his father had told him long ago: if something doesn't know what you are, then it'll wait until you stop before finding out, because when you stop you're either injured or tired, and that means you're vulnerable. They'd been doing it for three days and nights so far, walking non-stop, and Billy really hoped they'd reach a settlement soon. He wasn't sure how much further he could go.

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><p>Arkansas was dreaming, and in his dream he was standing over the burning bodies of the slavers, bellowing out his anger. There was some sort of weapon in his hand, long and smooth like the finger of an angel, and whoever he pointed it at died. He'd found it after his parents had pushed him through the hole in the back of their house before turning to fight the slavers, almost as if they'd pushed him into it. He felt a fierce joy in his heart that he'd never known before as the slavers died and his parents stood waiting by the door, his father's arms open and his mother laughing. Later on, Arkansas would forget about the memory and only remember the dream, his mind hazing away the truth behind reams of alcohol and regret until the dream itself became a nightmare. But for now the dream was still new, and having no-way to tell what the future would bring Arkansas smiled gently in his sleep, his feet still pattering him forwards in a line until the ground vanished and he tumbled into the dark.<p>

In his mind the dream entered an unpleasant phase as he fell through the dark, before fumbling itself away as reality rushed back in, his head having collided with something metal. Blinking, Arkansas opened his eyes to look around, still far too confused and tired to think of screaming. It was dark, far darker than he'd ever seen before, and glancing around Arkansas realised he could only see the stars and the moon through the hole he'd fallen through. His hands began to rustle about in the blackness, and Arkansas found that the metal object he'd hit continued on for quite some way, his hands flowing along an object that seemed to be broken into parts and segments. Half of it seemed to be made of two long poles whilst the other was made of a central piece that split into two smaller poles higher up. Continuing his search, Arkansas found something peculiar near to where the two smaller poles split off: something that was both wet, squishy and slightly warm to the touch. It was so different to the metal part that Arkansas ran his hands over it several times, trying to get a good feel of what it could be before something else clicked in. He could hear breathing outside.

From around the hole into which he'd fallen came the sound of something large being very quiet, it's footfalls making no sound at all but causing the ground around Arkansas to shake and small rushes of dirt to crumble down into what little moonlight fell through the hole. Freezing in horror and staring ridgedly out of the hole, Arkansas tried to quash the sound of his own breathing, his ears pricking for more sounds from outside as whatever it was husky breaths' came closer and closer. As they drew nearer, the sound became more distinct: the breaths' becoming more and more laboured as if it had run a very long distance, and a scrapping sound was added, as if something was being dragged along after it. And then something put out the moon by moving in front of the hole.

The shape was indistinct at first until Arkansas's eyes got used to it, and when he did he scrabbled backwards, deeper into his hole, fear having overtaken his earlier urge to be silent. The creature's shape was unmissable, known everywhere as the infernal bogeyman of the wastes, the demon killer that could take down twenty ordinary men before it was stopped. The shape was that of a death-claw.

His hands scrambled over the dirt, pulling and clutching at it as he dragged himself backwards, away from the head that was now angled towards him. The death-claw paused, as if catching it's breath, before it began to slowly fold itself inside the entrance, it's figure elongating as it squeezed it's way inside, claws grabbing at the sides as it's bulk blotted out what little natural light entered the hole. Then, as he pushed himself backwards, Arkansas felt something hard and cold push into the small of his back, and as his hands reached round to push it out of the way he felt something that made his heart almost pause for a moment. He found a trigger.

The butt of the weapon dragged along the wall of the small hole as Arkansas swung it round, it's barrel far longer than he expected and scrapping dirt off the sides. After far too long it was pointed at the head of the death-claw, it's mouth now open and pointed at him as something approaching a roar was building inside it. The roar from the weapon was louder, deafening Arkansas as it growled round and round the confined space, each shouting echo calling louder and louder until Arkansas dropped the weapon and flung his hands over his ears, his screams adding to the noise. The death-claw recoiled as it struck, it's body shuddering before it flumped onto the ground, most of it's body still hanging out of the hole and into the night. After it hadn't moved for a few minutes, Arkansas realised he'd killed it.

Tears began to pour down his face from the adrenaline, the weapon now cradled against his chest as Arkansas considered the slumped figure, it's still form a marked contrast from the menace it had shown earlier. Cautiously, he poked it with the barrel of his weapon, and when it didn't move he proceeded to push it out of the hole, the action taking up all of his strength. And then, the weapon pointed towards the hole, Arkansas waited, his eyes watching the outside tirelessly for any sign of movement.

It was several hours later when dawn struck, flooding the area in enough light for Arkansas to realise he'd spent the night inside a dead-man's impromptu grave. The metal shape from before revealed itself to be a corpse dressed in black and red metallic armour of some kind, though scratches from where either the death-claw or something else had broken the surface revealed it to be paint. The soft part turned out to be what was left of a person's head, and Arkansas was disgusted with himself to think that he had unknowingly run his hands along it. He felt even more unclean.

The weapon revealed itself to be a rifle of some kind, it's magazine only holding a few rounds which Arkansas considered to be strange, especially as the weapon held a sense of familiarity around it, as if he'd seen it somewhere before. It felt... right in his hands, as if either he or the weapon had been built to be together. There was a scope attached to it and, looking through it, Arkansas wondered what it did, poking the weapon around his hole until it suddenly struck the outside, and Arkansas got his first good look at what was out there.

There were bodies hanging loosely around the dead-wooded area, not as many as he'd seen at Ridgefield but enough to leave an impression. All of them were dressed in the same black and red armour as the one next to him, and scattered amongst them were boxes and crates of some kind. The hole he was in was connected to a rock formation against the side of a hill and, looking at it in the light of day, Arkansas realised that crater was probably a better word than hole: it was as if something had been set off and caused the dirt to collapse to form the semi-cave into which he'd fallen. And then there was the death-claw left outside his sheltering spot: it's body covered with holes, scratches and bruises from when it had attacked the band of armoured people. That, Arkansas realised with a swallow, was probably why it had died when he'd fired: it was already close to death. But even still, he had killed it.

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><p>Billy hadn't realised that Arkansas was missing until dawn, and had immediately turned back, furiously criticising himself for not having checked on him. It was just like Arkansas to have got lost or to have taken a wrong turn whilst following him, and it was just like him to have not checked to see if he was still following. Berating himself internally for his mistake, Billy wondered if he would forgive himself if Arkansas was injured or, even worse, if he was dead. He hoped he'd be able to.<p>

There was a sudden shot from the hill ahead of him, and Billy heard something slump to the ground with a whine behind him. Turning, he saw a pack of feral dogs scatter behind him, their leader chewing the dust as blood flowed to the ground from out his skull. They, Billy realised with growing dread, were probably what had been stalking him this entire time. And somebody had shot their leader as it was about to make it's move. Turning, Billy squinted his eyes into the sun as he looked for whoever had saved him.

"So there you are. I was beginning to get worried." the voice of Arkansas called out, and Billy's immediate relief began to be tempered by anger.

"Arkansas: where the hell you bin?" He called out, starting forwards towards where the voice had come from. As he approached he passed by lumps of metal which looked like the twisted remains of old Mr Gutsys and Protectrons he remembered reading about. And there, sitting on a rock and smiling at him as if he hadn't a care in the world, was Arkansas.

"Getting lucky." He replied, stoking the barrel of the gun he was carrying, a sniper rifle of all things. "Shooting things and saving you're ass." he continued, lowering it.

"Where'd you get that from? Sniper rifle's are damn rare." Billy said, resisting the urge to put one hand on his hip as Ma always did when she was cross. He could feel their roles changing as Arkansas cradled the gun, and he didn't like it.

"So that's what it is." Arkansas replied, his hands not pausing from their run along it. "I'd wondered. And I told you: I got lucky. I found a way to get back at the Slavers: a way we can make up for not being strong."

"Arkansas, you leave that alone right now, you hear me? We can't: they'll still kill us, we can't beat them. Please, just give it up."

"I'm not giving it up." Arkansas said, angrily standing up. He glared down at Billy for a few seconds before raising his rifle and looking through the scope. "But I'm fine if you don't want to come. There's a man about twenty yards away from us heading straight over here. He looks like a Trader. You can go with him."

"I don't want to go alone." Billy continued, looking up at Arkansas, his voice pleading. "Arkansas, I know you want to get them back but there's nothing we can do: nothing either of us can do. Both of our families are dead, as are our friends, and those that were captured wouldn't want us to kill ourselves to rescue them. Arkansas, please: we're the only ones left. The only people we've got are each other, and that's it. Just give it up. Let it go."

Arkansas said nothing, just breathed in and out heavily as he looked over at the man approaching them. Billy turned his head away to check that he was even real, and sure enough off in the middle distance was a man with a Brahmin trailing behind him coming straight for them. When he turned back, Arkansas was gone from his rock.

The minutes passed like hours as Billy looked, but Arkansas was nowhere to be found. Eventually, the trader arrived and after a few words of introduction and explanation from them both, asked if the broken robots were his salvage or if the trader could have a go at fixing them.

"You can." Billy said, the absence of Arkansas biting into him. "But only if you can take me to Rivet City."

"Take both of us." A second voice rang out, and Arkansas stepped out from behind a burnt tree-trunk, the rifle strapped to his back and a belt of ammunition clinking from his chest. Ignoring the Trader, he spoke to Billy directly.

"But only if you promise I can come back."

Billy nodded, and much later the three of them set off, with the added inclusion of a Mr Gusty calling itself sergeant RL-3. It would be many years later until that promise was acted upon.

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><p><em>Author's notes.<em>

So, that's chapter two of three up and as I'm a bit less tired at the moment, I'll write a bit more down here than I did for chapter one. Including stuff that should have been in Chapter one's notes but wasn't. If that bores/annoys you, feel free to skip: after all, I'll never know unless you review and tell me so ;)

So, things I missed: first of all, Isaiah Red is the father of a miss Carolina Red (The clue's in the surname), the mad one you meet in Paradise falls (isn't continuity nice?). Also, Billy has a sort of half-real existence, as his son exists in game as a corpse but he doesn't. Weird, no? Oh, and another reason as for why I used Arkansas was that Bethesda has put a surprising amount of work in to his back story considering that you never actually learn any of it: just read the Fallout wiki if you don't believe me (seriously, how useful is that site for fanfic writers?)

As for this chapter, well, there's not much to say other than how else would Arkansas get all those mines/sniper rifle but from a downed Outcast patrol? Even if the Outcast's shouldn't be around when Ridgefield was destroyed, to which I have to say...

Anyway, thank you for reading/reviewing if you're going to (added thanks to Jagger356 for reviewing last time.)


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